


Out of the great undead

by tocourtdisaster



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 21:38:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tocourtdisaster/pseuds/tocourtdisaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns. John studiously doesn't react.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of the great undead

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to remain spoiler-free, so this isn't based at all on any spoilers that may or may not be out there; in fact, the majority of this story was written almost a year ago, so any similarities to what's being shot now are purely coincidental. The title comes from 'At the End of the Day' by Spock's Beard.

There's no crying or fainting or punching or hugging on John's part when Sherlock waltzes back from the dead and right back into his life sixteen months after John watched him jump from a rooftop. There are no apologies made by either party and there is no question that as soon as Sherlock is back in the Met's good graces that John will reclaim his role of blogger to the world's only consulting detective.

"Mrs. Hudson's rented out the flat," John tells him over a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits that both of them ignore. They're in the tiny sitting room of John's tiny flat, which is as much as he can afford even with the combined income from his pension and salary. He'd thought about looking for a flatmate about a year ago, but he wasn't (and still isn't) sure he's fit to share living space with anyone anymore, especially after the disaster of kipping in Mike's guest room for six weeks right after Sherlock's funeral.

"Yes, I know," Sherlock answers distractedly, paying much more attention to the room around him than to John, not that John's surprised. He'd be more shocked if Sherlock had ignored his surroundings in favor of actual human interaction. "Mycroft has his lackeys searching for a suitable replacement."

"Where are you staying in the meantime?" John asks, uncomfortably aware that he doesn't have space for Sherlock to stay here, but that if he asks, John won't be able to say no. He dubiously eyes the couch, which is barely long enough for John to lie on and lumpy as hell, and he knows that if Sherlock stays here, Sherlock won't be the one forced to sleep on it. John's back is already aching in protest of future abuse.

Sherlock finally turns his attention to John and just stares and his gaze is as unnerving as it ever was, but reassuring at the same time and if that doesn't say something about how cracked John is, then he doesn't know what does.

"Do not tell me you're sleeping rough," John says when the silence is stretching from uncomfortable right on into excruciating, something that John hasn't experienced with Sherlock since the very beginning of their acquaintance. He gladly welcomes the feeling, the discomfort and awkwardness, if only because it means that they're both alive to be feeling it.

"Worse," Sherlock says, finally turning away, eyes alighting on John's small collection of books on the shelf above his desk.

"Ah," John says, a metaphorical light bulb going off above his head. "And how is living with Mycroft?"

"Makes me wish I'd stayed dead," Sherlock answers, still scrutinizing John's books. John wonders what the man could be learning about him from them that he doesn't already know.

"That can be arranged if you'd like," John tells him, his tone a touch too sharp to be pleasant. Sherlock's eyes jerk back to John and John knows his smile is too toothy to be friendly, but he doesn't really care about that right now. "You do realize that Mycroft had already told me all about his deal with Moriarty before you jumped? So that speech about you being a fake would have been really quite ineffective if you hadn't jumped. Not that that swayed me in any way but to think that you were even more of a selfish bastard than I had ever thought."

"Yes, I was informed of your conversation with Mycroft after the fact," Sherlock says. "Not that it affected my immediate goal, so it was of no real consequence in the long run."

"And what exactly _was_ your immediate goal?" John asks, taking a sip of his lukewarm tea to try to calm his rising anger. Getting angry at Sherlock had never helped him make his point before and he can't imagine that that's changed in the time Sherlock's been dead. Well, not dead, but pretending to be dead. _Whatever,_ John thinks, shaking his head as if that's ever managed to dislodge a thought.

"My goal was the recall of the assassins Moriarty had trained on you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock answers in such a matter-of-fact tone that it takes John a moment to realize what exactly Sherlock is saying. "Once they were convinced I was dead, you three were no longer targets and I was free to dismantle Moriarty's organization. It was a win-win situation."

"Win-win in the sense that everyone who ever cared about you believed you were dead? Because let me tell you, that's not exactly a fun situation to be in, not on this side of the equation."

“Win-win in the sense that you were alive and able to be angry with me while I was also alive and able to take down an extremely large criminal organization,” Sherlock answers with a dismissive wave of his hand, as if John’s weeks and months of mourning were of absolutely no consequence to him.

_Maybe they’re not,_ John thinks. He knows that Sherlock’s never exactly had good interpersonal relationship skills, but he’d thought that Sherlock had cared at least a little for him. 

Sherlock must catch at least part of this in John’s face because he says, “Not good?” and just like that, John’s taken back to that first night almost four years ago now, the first time Sherlock had looked to him, a near perfect stranger, for emotional guidance.

“Yeah, a bit not good, Sherlock,” John answers, almost rote at this point, and it feels _so good_ to be saying it that he can’t hold on to his resentment for Sherlock’s casual abuse of his feelings and just lets it melt away and that’s not healthy, is it?

"Hmm," Sherlock hums, a contemplative look on his face, like he's actually allowing their conversation to be saved on that hard drive of his he calls a brain. "Yes, well, now I'll know better for next time I need to fake my death."

"Next time you fake your death, I will kill you myself, Sherlock, I swear I will."

"That somewhat defeats the purpose of _faking_ my death, though I suppose this is sentiment again?" Sherlock says. 

"Sentiment," John agrees with a nod. He takes a sip of his now-cold tea and makes a face at the bitter taste. "God, I could really use a beer."

Sherlock, miraculously, takes that for the hint it is. "Chinese," he says decisively, pushing himself to his feet. "You can buy."

"Like hell I'm buying," John says as he grabs his coat and keys and follows Sherlock out the door, just like déjà vu.

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Want me to write a fic for you? [Bid on me to support AO3](http://ao3auction.tumblr.com/tocourtdisaster). Full details [here](http://ao3auction.tumblr.com/FAQ).


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